


Full Of Love, Sleep And Fine Whiskey

by halloa_what_is_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Domesticity, M/M, Sherlock being touchy, TW: Blood, but a happy ending, so not nice, tw: gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a bang and ends with a whimper. And John really doesn’t mind either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Of Love, Sleep And Fine Whiskey

“Oh, fuck you, Sherlock!”

“Okay.”

Sherlock licks his lips and stares intently at John. He is standing leisurely in the middle of the sitting room, legs and arms relaxed, but his toes are digging into the dusty rug so that they are almost white.

John blinks slowly, his jaw working uselessly. With all the oxygen seeming to have suddenly left the room he can’t even form words.

His speechlessness persists as Sherlock leads him along the hall towards the gaping hole of an open door.

In the dimness of his bedroom, lips red and eyes bright, Sherlock looks up at him for admission only once and John gives it to him without a second thought.

 

+

 

So they fall into bed together every once in a while. Nothing really changes anyway. They just happen to share the sheets now on top of the food, water and electricity as well as the newspaper in the morning.

Sherlock becomes softer, though. His arms are suddenly constantly circling around John and his feet always come to rest over John’s thighs on the sofa, but the new need for intimacy is best seen in Sherlock’s constant presence, continuous touching of John and the tiny soft glances he still tries to keep hidden when they are in public. But then there comes a day when Sherlock is having an excruciatingly terrible time, it’s raining, he has forgotten his scarf, Anderson has been _right_ for once, and he is out of nicotine patches. Then John walks briskly to him and pulls his arms round his waist.

After that Sherlock doesn’t stop to think before he allows himself to indulge in the intimate moments wherever they happen to be. It only becomes a problem once, when he pokes his cold fingers under John’s jumper just when they are kneeling over a body. John has a very sharp piece of glass in his hand that he has picked out from the abdomen wound it has made in the victim and he almost pokes Lestrade’s eye out with it when he shrieks like a teenage girl and reflexively jerks his arms up towards the DI who is hovering over his shoulder.

Lestrade waves John’s terrified apologies away, laughing good-humouredly when Sherlock, never learning anything from his mistakes, sticks his hand under John’s jumper again. After that, John is often called by several monikers that are usually given to little children every time Lestrade is having a particularly good day.

The first time Mrs Hudson hears John scream, it sounds nothing like a little girl being tickled to death and so when she dares to walk up the stairs and to peak her head in to see the boys in their dressing gowns lounging in their chairs reading half a newspaper each, then she asks, quite off-handedly like it is no big deal, whether it’s time for her to put the earplugs she has been saving for the past year to use.

Again, John blushes crimson and Sherlock slithers his foot under the dressing gown to touch his thigh.

Once or twice John gets enough of Sherlock’s cuddling, but no matter how stern he tries to be, he is never actually angry or would want Sherlock to stop. It is only very inconvenient when several feet of consulting detective suddenly jump into John’s lap, just when he is about to dive into his morning cup of tea.

“Get off, you giant arse!”

Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder and stretches to see his backside.

“My arse is fairly medium in size,” he retorts. “Yours, on the other hand…”

John yips when Sherlock’s hands grab his ankles, pull him down on the chair so he is lying on his back on it and squeeze his denim-covered buttocks.

“Perhaps you should lay off the biscuits,” Sherlock squishes the muscle gently. “Though I like your bum like this, soft and squeezable.”

“Perhaps you should shut up,” John blushes, hoping Sherlock won’t decide to steal the plate of biscuits he had planned to enjoy with his tea. They are the last of the box, they are his favourite, and Sherlock _did_ eat about three quarters of the box himself.

“Perhaps I will.”

He does, and instead of talking he pokes his paws under the waistband of John’s jeans.

“Cold hands, Sherlock!”

“Then they are in a perfect place,” Sherlock digs his nose into John’s shirt and inhales.

“What are you doing?”

“Collecting,” Sherlock sniffs deep over John’s shoulder and rubs his fingers over the skin of his back.

“You’re still fuzzy in my mind palace. I need to know exactly how you feel and smell to be able to remember you.”

“I’d think you’d be more than well-acquainted with my arse by now.”

“Never well enough.” _Never enough_.

 

+

 

Sherlock collects, gathers and catalogues and the image of John inside his mind palace gets stronger and clearer. He smells and feels every part of John and every surface in the flat to get him right in any possible situation. He categorizes John’s sexual preferences into a bookshelf he keeps cleanest and most organized, and makes sure he won’t trip on anything on his way there, always accessible, always necessary.

He knows John hates having his nipples touched, sees this in the way he tenses the one time Sherlock’s tongue goes anywhere near them, the way he whimpers softly, in a way that is in no way sexy or pleased.

So he avoids them, drags his tongue and hands and one time his toes over every bit of skin but the few inches in the middle of John’s pectorals. He doesn’t draw attention to this, makes sure John doesn’t notice. Though somewhere at the back of his brain he probably does and is grateful. Sherlock doesn’t want him to be self-conscious when they’re touching, no more than he already is about the scar, his wrinkles that increase every year with age, or his belly that has grown slightly softer and which Sherlock loves and makes sure to pepper extra kisses on when they are in bed.

He grows bolder every day, biting occasionally and when John wakes up sore and stiff in the morning and moans his body’s misuse, Sherlock only smirks wickedly. For a moment he turns roughness into cuddles and bites into blowing raspberries on John’s skin until John laughs with tears streaming from his eyes and they forget to go further but fall asleep with their skin glowing and breathing deeply just from cuddling and laughing.

The rare occasions Sherlock does sleep are limited to post case and post coital moments. John, however, falls asleep on the sofa, in the bed, in his chair, on the floor, at the table, while Sherlock drones on and taps away on his computer. John snores (which he himself says is patently untrue) and the susurrus of his sinuses droning in his throat disturbs Sherlock. Sometimes John almost wakes up to a cold finger arranging his hair, cataloguing the exact texture, strength and colour of it. He doesn’t have Sherlock’s wild fringe, so there are no errand curls out of place, just a tuft of hair on the wrong side which apparently needs to be arranged immediately.

And when he falls asleep in an actual bed, Sherlock is never far behind. Nor is he far away when he wakes up.

“Your hand is in my pants. Again.”

“It’s warm there,” Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

“Take it out.”

“It’s warm,” Sherlock repeats. “And squishy and soft, unlike other parts of you.”

“What, are you telling me off for actually working out?” John exclaims mockingly. “Now, that’s a first. At least I take care of my health.”

“I don’t need a work-out,” Sherlock drools a bit into his pillow and makes a little snoring sound in his throat.

“No, you need food. Take your hand so I can go and make us breakfast.”

“My hand can come with.”

“No, it can’t. Not if it is inside my pants. I will not cook you an omelette with your hand caresssss--!”

“Gentle enough for you?” Sherlock smirks and digs his fingers more forcefully into the soft flesh.

John smacks him on the head with a pillow. Sherlock escapes the next punch, scrambling towards the end of the bed and pulls the blanket from under John, who goes down on his back and is buried under the same blanket as well as everything else that they have on bed, including both their dressing gowns and a forgotten sock. Sherlock snatches the pillow from the fist peeking out from under the bedding and once John is securely tied up, he begins to pound him on the sides with it. John hurls insults at him and attempts to get away from his stuffy prison. Sherlock throws the pillow away and attacks John’s sides with his fingers. The cursing turns into howls of laughter and when Sherlock finally allows John’s head to poke out and the man to draw in a gasp of fresh air, his face is red as a beetroot. Secure in the knowledge that he has won this match, Sherlock releases his hold and attacks John’s face instead.

“This is what I’ve always wanted,” he says between lips pressing into lips. “Make-up snogging.”

John grins against his mouth.

 

+

 

When no case is in sight, they visit Bart’s regularly. On a Monday, Molly has tied her hair up in a new way and is wearing a silk scarf round her neck.

She giggles less but smiles more, drops objects less often and passes the halls of Bart’s like she is floating a few inches above the floor.

“She is seeing someone,” Sherlock informs off-handedly when Molly steps out of the room just when John walks in with two mugs in hand.

“She’s engaged, you berk.”

The coffee is very hot when it sloshes over the rim and on his fingers. With all the observations he has made, he has missed the most obvious one.

Molly comes back and Sherlock offers his congratulations and praises the ring, blushes for both of them when Molly rests her hand on his arm.

She wants him to play the violin at the wedding and sing in the small choir in the church.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” John comments back at Baker Street, sitting in his chair as Sherlock tunes his violin and drags the bow over it once or twice.

“Comes with the playing, I guess. You get an ear for music.”

“Not everyone. I played the clarinet for years and I still can’t sing without making the cats howl.”

“Then it must be my natural talent for things.”

“Is there anything you _can’t_ do?” John sighs.

Sherlock thinks for a moment.

“I can’t swim very well.”

“You can’t... Seriously, you can’t swim?”

“No John. I said ‘very well’. I can swim, of course, only not perfectly.”

“So in all the years you’ve been a consulting detective, you’ve never considered that perhaps if a suspect pushes you in the Thames or drops a piece of evidence in a pool, you would - in the worst case scenario - drown?”

“Yes, it has crossed my mind. That is why I try to avoid such situations. Usually I throw Anderson in.”

John giggles.

“I could teach you,” he offers.

“Once again, John, I know how to swim...”

“I know, I know, but you would actually become good at it.”

Sherlock swings the bow between his fingers, staring at the wall.

“All right then. But you have to lend me swimming trunks. I don’t own any.”

“I’ll buy you a pair,” John promises. “Mine won’t fit you. We don’t want you arrested for public indecency when the trunks float away in the middle of a lap.”

As it turns out, the swimming gear is the least of John’s problems as they jump into the shallow end of the very cold pool the next day.

“So you lied.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock persists. “I said I can’t swim very well.”

“Sherlock, you can _float_. Barely.”

John grasps Sherlock’s shoulders just when he is once again about to sink down. In the kid’s pool, a couple of mum’s bathing their toddlers glance at them every once in a while, wink at each other and giggle.

Sherlock grasps John’s shoulders so hard it hurts and sloshes the water weakly with his feet.

“Your ridiculous monkeytoes should be helpful with this,” John grunts as chlorine water splashes in his face for the tenth time.

“I do not have monkeytoes,” Sherlock sounds outraged.

“You have the monkeyest of monkeytoes I have ever seen.”

“Try and be more inventive with your adjectives, please, John.”

“I’ve inhaled so much water my _brain_ is soaked. Tread!”

Sherlock splashes for his life and manages to stay on the surface. John lowers him gently deeper into the water and loosens his hold around Sherlock’s back to grasp his hands instead. Sherlock treads for a few seconds, splashing the water around, almost drowning the other swimmers in the pool before he grows tired, begins to sink down again and scrambles to take a hold of John’s head.

John sighs. Sherlock spits water and lays gasping against John’s chest, hands digging into his biceps.

They are so close. Sherlock feels John’s heartbeat against his own. That blessed heartbeat that could have stopped at a similar pool only six months ago.

It wasn’t the missed swimming classes of his childhood or summer holidays spend by the sea, his toes buried in the sand and his nose in a book while others sloshed away in the blue waves. It wasn’t _just_ that. It was the pool and the chlorine and the snipers and the sniggering little Irish man saying he could stop John Watson like a clock if he wanted to.

He’d known how to swim, barely, and known that if worse came to worst, he wouldn’t be much use with mouth full of water, trying to swim in the deep end of a pool probably filled with rubble and pieces of tile.

Perhaps a floating body of John Watson with a bullet through his heart.

He knew he’d be useless but he can’t bear it. He deleted everything he knew about water except that he was able to drink it and only remembered that it could be used for washing as well when John noted that he could really use a bath.

He’d only remembered he couldn’t swim when John had asked him. And he thought that if John was there when he went under, it wouldn’t be too bad.

But it’s worse. He goes blind with panic every time his head goes under water, he hears Moriarty’s sing-song voice constantly in his head, he feels like someone will grasp his foot and drag him to the bottom if he doesn’t stop kicking.

The images are too much. He gives up, bollocks to this whole swimming thing anyways, and opens his eyes. John looks down at him with his eyes full of concern. Has he said something? Whimpered without realising it?

John is about to say something but Sherlock beats him to it, kisses him fervently, water splashing all round them, John’s heartbeat still strong against his own now.

“I want to go home,” he pants against John’s lips.

At Baker Street, Lestrade is waiting for them in the sitting room with a stern expression on his face, a file in hand and Sally Donovan standing behind him like a bodyguard. The latter part never knows well. If Sally Donovan is desperate enough to grace their flat with her presence, something must really be amiss.

The object of her desperation is a bomber, a nasty one at that. In the past six months he has blown up a government officials building (something Mycroft came over to talk about while John was out and which Sherlock dismissed with a shrug of his shoulder while with the other he tried to gesture his older brother to leave the same way he came in), banks and an unused underground station.

“Why unused?” John asks.

“His practice round,” Donovan tells him while Sherlock discusses the location of the bombings with Lestrade in front of a huge map of London stabbed hesitantly on the sitting room wall with pins and Sherlock’s knife. Mrs Hudson walks in, tuts at the misuse of her walls and lowers a tray of tea on the desk.

“He started with that and then went off to blow the banks and the government building while both were empty,” Donovan continues as she stirs two sugars into her tea and clinks the spoon in her cup.

“So no casualties?”

“So far,” she says and sips her tea.

“So why is this so nasty?”

Without a word, Donovan pulls out a regular A4-piece of paper from the bottom of the file and gives it to him. John inspects the letters cut from newspapers and magazines, frowns at the words promising more devastation with no remorse and refers to recent bombings done by certain fascist groups, describing them as beautiful, works of art and only a small example of what he himself is about to do.

“Jesus,” John breathes.

Donovan nods.

She takes a biscuit, bites down and an expression of pure bliss appears on her face. She turns to Mrs Hudson who is attempting to push a cup of tea at Sherlock and is momentarily very busy. So she swallows the rest of the biscuit, takes another gulp of the tea and points at the file in John’s hands.

“We only got after him when we found the remains of the bomb at the last location. The parts that were not scorched beyond recognition gave out the edge of a sticker. We were able to trace the bomb or at least parts of it to an old army warehouse that had had a yard sale a few weeks back. No list of buyers but there was a security cam video which was really helpful at least with putting faces to the hundred or so people who visited that day.”

“I must say, I am impressed by the efficiency New Scotland Yard has approached this case.”

Sherlock appears by John’s shoulder, takes the cup of tea from his hands and takes a sip, then grimaces at the sweetness.

“Mrs Hudson did offer you your own cup,” John reminds him. “You wouldn’t have to scrunch your face into expressions it will stick into if you stopped stealing my tea.”

Sherlock, not hearing or not listening, takes another sip while reading the file over John’s shoulder and almost spits out the tea this time.

“God! How can you manage this much sugar in one go?”

“Don’t knock my drinking habits,” John says and gives him the cup Mrs Hudson offered and left on the table to wait. White tea, no sugar.

Sherlock gulps it in one go and then, when Donovan and Lestrade are looking to the other direction, he dives in and kisses the remains of the sugary tea from John’s lips.

He tastes like Turkish delight.

 

+

 

They are attached to the case from thereon and three months later John is ready to give up. Sherlock has identified their bomber in the first couple of days, thanks to the security camera video, as well as tracked down the remains of the other bombs with the help of several of his Homeless Network thanks to all of which John had the momentary delusional idea that the case would be swift and end soon.

Three months and sixteen days later, several weeks of sleepless nights and even more of angry outbursts that shake the roof of 221B as well as 21 dead people later, Perkins the Bomber (as John has christened him in his head. A hurried title, true, and as imaginative as Bob the Builder but serves its purpose and allows him to mention the man in his blog whenever he has time to write up a post.) still remains free, cunning and speedily making his way up to Sherlock’s top 5 of The Most Despicable Human Beings and Most Frustrating Villains Ever.

Sherlock himself is soon becoming The Third Most Annoying Thing To Wake Up To At Three O’ Eight In The Morning for John.

“oh god no go away”

“Are you having a nightmare?” Sherlock asks, not even trying to lower his voice.

“God, I hope so!” John growls into the pillow.

He buries his face deeper into the white cotton and tries to block out both Sherlock’s voice calling his name as well as the tugging at the leg of his pyjama.

“Sherlock, I haven’t slept in 36 hours. Despite the cat naps here and there, I’ve basically been awake for a week now and I can’t go on any longer. Now, please, go to sleep yourself or go downstairs to stare at the wall, I don’t care. I only want to sleep and if you don’t bloody well try and do the same, I don’t want you here with me.”

 

 

He remembers it all in the morning when he goes downstairs, only to see a flat empty of Sherlock. He takes out his phone to text him, to apologise, but just then the front door opens and footsteps pound upstairs. Sherlock, coat wet and hair tussled, doesn’t spare a glance at him but stomps to the bedroom and slams the door shut so that the nails shake in the hinges.

John phones Lestrade.

“He killed again,” Lestrade tells him. “Right in front of our faces. Blew up a nursery. Everything in shambles, blood all over the place. It’s going to be in the evening news.”

 

+

 

From then on, Sherlock is ferocious, snapping at John about everything he can think of until one night he actually stomps to the bedroom and opens the door with a bang, screaming at John that he is breathing too loudly.

“What do you know about these?” he asks a second after and pushes a photo of a thing that looks like a mixture of an IED and something a child could have built in their cellar at his face.

“Not more than Wikipedia. I wasn’t in the bomb squad, as you know.”

“Then what even is the point of you?” Sherlock snarls.

But his need for John’s presence kicks in the moment John pushes past him and takes his coat from the hook.

Sherlock follows close behind, stopping on the landing to watch John stomp downstairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you!” John yells from the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock’s anger reaches another level.

“Fine,” he hisses. “Just as well. You’re useless to me anyway.”

John stops at the door, fingers squeezing the handle so that his knuckles go white and bloodless before he jerks the door open and walks directly into Lestrade.

“NSY. Now,” he says.

 

+

 

Sherlock paces back and forth in one of the interrogation rooms at the Yard with Lestrade buzzing around him, pestering him with questions and huffing and puffing like it’s his fault the case is not yet solved and Anderson and Donovan sneering at his inability. John tries to help by whispering something to Lestrade and glaring at Donovan and Anderson which usually makes Sherlock feel better but now gets him angrier than anything. So in the end he pushes John away harshly when he storms out of the door. John stumbles and hits his shoulder painfully against the wall. His bad shoulder, the one that he always turns away in crowded spaces to avoid contact, the one that has begun to ache when it’s damp, the one Sherlock never ever touches because John hates the starburst of scar tissue that has formed after a bullet plummeted through it on a desert in a place John misses and Sherlock wants him never to return to, never to remember, never to dream of.

Instead of John’s hurried footsteps, it’s Donovan’s angry huff and a dead silence from the rest that follows Sherlock outside.

 

Three hours later, they are after the bomber.

They run, they jump and skid to a halt as the suspect turns around and empties his gun at them. John gets up faster than Sherlock whose coat is heavy with the dirty water from the gutter. John is five meters ahead of him, chasing the now not so much a suspect but definitely guilty man with his own gun drawn when, out of nowhere, the man running for his life hurls a knife at him. The attack comes so suddenly that John has no time to react. And the aim is good. But luckily thrown in full speed.

Sherlock sees the knife chucked towards John’s heart sunk deep into his bicep and John himself fall on the ground with a loud gasp, hitting his head on the pavement as he goes. The suspect has already disappeared round the corner when Sherlock falls to John’s side.

“You idiot!” he screams. “You should have known he had a knife!”

He keeps yelling and insulting John even when Lestrade arrives and phones for an ambulance. The paramedics carry John away on a stretcher and Sherlock follows close by, continuing to hurl insults at him. When the paramedics slam the doors of the ambulance closed in front of his nose, he explodes. He bangs at the doors, kicks the tyres and starts throwing small rocks at the retreating car as it drives away. Lestrade takes a hold of his hand and threatens him with an arrest. Sherlock snarls at him, throws the rock at Anderson, who is bent over the fresh, still slightly smouldering corpse Perkins has left behind on the ground, and hits him at the back of the head.

Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around himself and walks away.

 

 

John comes home after a few days, arm in bandages and on a sling. Sherlock sees him through the window. But John doesn’t climb up the stairs the moment he walks in but knocks on Mrs Hudson’s door instead and stays for hours. Sherlock sneaks behind the closed door and presses a glass against it the better tohear the quiet murmur of voices. He doesn’t hear his name being mentioned but Mrs Hudson’s voice is so soft, so understanding that they must be talking about him.

He leaves one of Mrs Hudson’s flower vases directly in front of the door and sneaks back upstairs.

Sitting in his chair with his knees drawn up, he listens for the door. John finally steps out and the vase falls over, without the desired sound of glass breaking. Only water sloshing and a muffled curse from John. He says something to Mrs Hudson who replies and then he is finally, _finally_ ascending the stairs.

He doesn’t even stop outside the sitting room door but continues directly upstairs.

Bang of the door and Sherlock is left alone in the dark.

 

+

 

Two months later John has all but moved back to his old room upstairs. Two months later, and Sherlock barely speaks a word to him or anyone else if it doesn’t have to do with the case. Two months later, and they haven’t touched each other for so long the John in Sherlock’s mind has turned into a pulp that slithers and creeps on the walls of the rooms and speaks unintelligibly in a tone that barely resembles the way John used to speak to him before. Two months later, and his desire for John gets so intense he tastes it, inky in his mouth, and it makes him gag.

Two months later, and they finally corner the bomber.

Or Sherlock does, but the others are only some ten or twenty steps behind. He is not thinking about who gets the credit from the case at this point. He has been chasing this man for six months. He is so emotionally drained that he doesn’t know whether to smile or to cry when he finally chases him into a corner.

Perkins decides for him. With a toothy grin, he pulls out a small hand grenade and so the last thing he sees is a look of absolute shock on Sherlock’s face.

 

+

 

John is only a few steps behind Sherlock when he turns round the corner after Perkins.

Perkins, whose grim countenance has glued itself over John’s retinas from the several mugshots he has seen of the man when he has been going through the files Sherlock has left on the kitchen table. Larceny, arson, assault, armed robbery are just a few of the accomplishments on the long list of reasons the man has spent years altogether in jail and of which arson has apparently been his absolute favourite. He has burnt down more buildings and more people than several wildfires have and he knows bombs better than the whole bomb squad of the New Scotland Yard.

Perkins, who they have been chasing for the past six months, faced three times but who has always escaped. The delusional man who has killed thirty people since the case has started and whose only possible end could be a padded room in a facility in the country. He has gotten under Sherlock’s skin more than any other criminal has after Moriarty, he knows him inside and out, and sometimes John can see the manic glint of a psychopath in Sherlock’s pupils after he has stood in front of the grotesque collage in the sitting room for three days straight.

Perkins, who blows himself up when they finally corner him in an abandoned warehouse. Sherlock, way ahead of everyone, disappears round the corner and John, never far behind, barges into the room with his gun drawn just when the explosion shakes the floor.

Parts of the ceiling drop down and John thanks his lucky stars that though abandoned, the warehouse is still in decent condition and doesn’t cave in completely by the force of the explosion. He coughs, looking round for the source, looking for any movement behind the cloud of white.

Through the smoke and rubble John’s eyes try to find Sherlock, who has dived away from Perkins a millisecond before the grenade has gone off. Smoking shoes about three metres away, the only thing left of Perkins, go unnoticed as he stays low and looks for a sign of movement, eyes stopping at a crouching figure on the floor. He stares at the whimpering mess of a man attempting to crawl further away from the centre of the wreck. Sherlock is covered in the blood and pulp of Perkins’ once whole combination of flesh, skin and bone, dust settling calmly on top of it all, on Sherlock’s ruined clothing and hair that is heavy with the gory mess.

“Sherlock,” John whispers gently though he realises Sherlock can’t possibly hear him. He was so close to the explosion, so close to Perkins going to bits that his ears must be ringing.

The figure, sensing John’s presence, lifts its head and searches for him blindly.

“John, please, get it off!”

Thick black blood pours out of its mouth as it speaks. The scene clearing from the dust, John can see that its lips are painted crimson, somehow shinier than the rest of its blood-covered face, almost pornographic in colour.

It pleads again and John snaps back to himself. The sounds Sherlock is making are so pitiful, edging on pure horror that John slides to him like on wheels, kneels and begins to scoop the bits of tissue and bone from Sherlock’s face. His hands turn crimson, but his trousers get most of the mess when he wipes his palms on them without looking. Two bright blue eyes stare out from Sherlock’s shock stricken face. John takes off his own jacket, strips his jumper and frantically wipes at the mess on Sherlock’s face, his own breathing still blessedly calm while Sherlock’s comes out in gasps. He is swaying his body from side to side, balancing on his knees and elbows until his legs give way and John catches him just before his jaw hits the concrete floor.

Lestrade and Donovan, accompanied by the SWAT team, stumble on the scene a moment later, stopping dead at the sight of Sherlock, bloody hair sticking to his relatively clean forehead, John still wiping his face and shushing him comfortingly, murmuring sweet nothings, using the steadily dripping tears to clean Sherlock’s mouth.

 

 

They don’t go to the hospital, not now. One of the paramedics at the scene tries to drape a blanket uselessly over Sherlock’s messy coat, only to drop it when Sherlock howls like he is burnt. They are standing near the ambulance, trying to come up with a solution, Sherlock leaning against John, pulling at his coat to get it off himself and whimpering into John’s skin. His arms get stuck in the sleeves and suddenly the only thing John cares about is the desperateness of Sherlock’s whispers on his skin, combination of his name, pleading and home, home, home.

Hospital be damned.

Lestrade drives them. At Baker Street, John stumbles out of the car with Sherlock glued to his back. They get through the door, collide with the small table in the corner, and the noise makes Mrs Hudson peak through her door. Her hands go to her mouth and John shakes his head quickly, mouths confirmation that everything is okay with Sherlock (physically) and she nods and watches their slow ascend upstairs.

John doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone but out of sheer unluck they don’t have any towels in the bathroom so he runs to Sherlock’s room and back. In the bathroom, Sherlock has nail clippers in his hand and he is waving them around, tugging at his hair and trying to shear it out with the clippers.

“John, please, get it off me!” he whimpers.

John catches the clippers before Sherlock plucks out an eye and stands still, waiting for more instructions. He stares at Sherlock’s hands, grasping at the sides of the sink with his knuckles white, the rest of him swaying from side to side again.

John puts the clippers away and takes out the small scissors from the emergency kit. He takes a tuff of hair between his fingers and cuts a few inches off. Sherlock is crying silently into the sink, the tears turning crimson as they run down his face.

“Get it off, get it off, please.”

So John grasps a thick chunk of the hair and cuts. It comes off and falls on the floor in a clump. Sherlock sighs heavily in relief. John continues his shearing until there’s only a few inches of uneven hair left on Sherlock’s head, then takes the electric razor he uses to shave and trims what is left. Big chunks of hair and mess of blood and skin stick to the blades and make the shaving difficult. Finally he steps back and lets his hands fall to his sides.

Sherlock stands in front of him, naked and shivering, surrounded by clumps of dark black hair. His head looks smaller now, his skull delicate under the mere inch of hair, and John takes a step towards him tocheck for possible damage on the scalp. Few older scars and nothing more. Sherlock’s brain is still protected by unbroken skull, and John lowers his hand gently on the back of it.

Sherlock’s knees give way and John catches him again, drags him to the tub and lowers him in.

Staring aimlessly at the pinkish water, Sherlock allows John to lift his arms and slide the soapy sponge under his armpits, bend his knees to reach his legs and groin, stays immovable as John scrubs his back and hair forcefully, using the amount of pressure that usually makes Sherlock groan in pleasure. Now he doesn’t even flinch when John’s nail scratch his neck.

All done, John sprays Sherlock clean of the soap, drains the tub and lifts Sherlock up. He drapes the towel over Sherlock’s shoulders and has to dodge away when his arms start to wave, and he wails,

“No, no, no!”

John pulls the towel away quickly and Sherlock grows calm instantly, staring at his feet, arms hanging loose by his sides. Slowly, John begins to dab the water droplets off Sherlock’s skin with the edge of the towel. This Sherlock seems to approve for he leans into the touch and rests his hands heavily on John’s shoulders and lets himself be led out of the steaming bathroom.

Sherlock startles at the offered t-shirt and crouches away from the pyjama pants. He falls on the bed, his limbs like rubber, movements soft and slow like he is made of toffee. John tries to pry the beddings loose under him and gets a handful of duvet.

Sherlock is up on his knees and elbows again, swaying gently and pleading no, no, no, no into the pillow.

“Get it off, John!”

“All right, all right,” John murmurs softly. “No blankets, no clothes, it’s okay.”

 

+

 

Sherlock sleeps for three days. John sleeps, eats and keeps watch in the same bed, only straying into the kitchen and to the bathroom. He has sent texts to Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft (though the last one feels redundant since Mycroft probably has seen everything on the CCTV cameras already) and asked them not to come round or call before he does. He knows he has to be the only one there when Sherlock wakes up.

Sherlock is half unconscious, but he still whimpers audibly every time John tries to drape a blanket over him.

 

 

On the third evening after the explosion, John falls asleep next to Sherlock and opens his eyes a few hours later the second Sherlock opens his and they stare at each other for a heartbeat before Sherlock lunges at him.

It’s one of those moments when you know exactly what the other person wants only by looking at them. John sees need and desperation in Sherlock’s almost transparent grey eyes, and when he slides over him and grasps him relentlessly, John doesn’t stop him. Sherlock hasn’t touched him in months and so he lets him do what he pleases.

The tension between them seems to have exploded with Perkins. Sherlock stays glued against his mouth and seems to push deeper into him with every movement so that John feels Sherlock will swallow him whole.

He wonders if this is something Sherlock used to do with his previous lovers, shared their air, swallowed it in huge gulps, attached himself onto every piece of their lungs. He wonders if Sherlock has had lovers before him. For the first time he is thinking about the people before him, the ghosts in Sherlock’s past who have on their part been responsible in shaping him into what he is now. He wonders if he has been in situations like this before, situations that need him to drink from the other person’s lungs, come back for air and dive back in again.

But John doesn’t care. He’s ready to give everything he has to help Sherlock, no matter if his muscles feel sore afterwards and his legs shake from the effort. He is actually surprised of the tenderness of Sherlock’s movements, having seen nothing but sheer desperation and animalistic lust in his eyes.

Sherlock gasps and cries out and falls back to sleep, a few tears falling from his eyes and rolling down John’s chest.

 

 

When John opens his eyes at the crack of dawn and turns round to see what he will face this time, Sherlock is instantly coming at him, on him, _in_ him again. The desperation is gone, replaced by insistence and need but he is still as gentle as before and pushes against John with the caution of a lover. But what really makes John feel like he is going to break from the gentleness of it is that now the constant repetition of his name is surrounded by endearments muttered into his bad shoulder.

When they come down, Sherlock’s eyes are clear and staring intently into John’s. He is not somewhere far away now but looking like there hasn’t been weeks of no contact at all, like they have been doing this on a regular basis, not just the two quick tumbles in the last seven hours. John suddenly feels like he is going to implode. Tears tickle in the corners of his eyes and he starts to giggle. He sniffles and smiles and blinks and laughs, all at the same time, while Sherlock nuzzles his neck and cheeks and mouth, planting kisses on every surface of skin he can get to, and John chuckles and sobs at the rough tickle of his four-day stubble.

They stay glued together until the sun finally reaches their windowpane and they feel ready to face the coming day.

 

+

 

Lestrade visits the next day. John, acknowledging they can’t dodge the formalities much longer, receives him at the door but won’t allow him to come upstairs where Sherlock is showering for the fifth time that morning.

When he climbs back upstairs, Sherlock is sitting on the floor, bare legs stretched out in front of him, his dressing gown hanging loose on his shoulders, barely covering anything.

But it’s a start.

He is twiddling a Biro between his fingers, staring at the empty floor like he usually stares at crime scene photos he spreads over the rug like a game of solitaire. John can see how his skin is already starting to crack from the excessive amount of showers. He retreats to the bathroom, swipes a jar of lotion and returns to the sitting room, sits in front of Sherlock on the floor and takes a hold of his calf.

 

+

 

Sherlock speaks less now, replying to John’s questions only in monosyllables. But he likes to hear John’s voice so John does everything he can to replace the sounds in the flat that used to come from Sherlock alone. He walks from room to room, making tea and cleaning the table and keeping up a running commentary on everything he does. If he is not doing anything, he still goes around slowly, describing the colour of the walls and counting all the mugs they have, one mug, two mugs, three mugs.

“Three mugs and two halves,” he says after he drops the horrid green one Sherlock usually uses to grow fungi in. It’s empty now, thank god. He doesn’t have to clean it up and describe himself picking up soil and pieces of mushroom.

“One shard, two shards, three shards,” he counts as he swipes each on his palm and dips them in the bin.

Sherlock has started slightly at the sound of the breaking cup but John has deemed it best to keep on going like nothing has happened. It won’t do Sherlock any good to startle at the smallest sounds and John to encourage it by running to his side.

John is washing his hands, describing the colour and consistency of the suds on his fingers, when hands curl around his waist, squeeze tightly and a nose presses into his shoulder. John goes instantly into describing Sherlock’s dry hands and the way they feel on his stomach, the tickling of Sherlock’s toes against his heels, the temperature of Sherlock’s breath on his nape. He continues to describe the softness of Sherlock’s lips when he is turned around and Sherlock crowds in closer and presses a kiss on his mouth.

 

 

After two weeks, when a news article on the paper John has been reading out loud gets ‘inconsistency’ out of Sherlock, he begins to hope once again that Sherlock might still come back.

 

+

 

He makes the mistake of leaving once. Only once.

Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, curls bristling softly in the gentle wind that blows in through the open window. Even though it’s December, the flat feels boiling and John has opened all the windows to let a cross-draught to rustle through it and roll out all the dust balls that have been hiding under and behind the furniture.

He leaves a note on the coffee table, kisses Sherlock’s forehead and takes the short trip to Tesco and back. The bag of groceries drops on the floor with a clunk the moment he sees Sherlock, shivering on the floor by the sofa. He looks up at John, eyes red and cheeks damp, and John folds to his knees in front of him, runs his hands over him, looking for an injury.

The damage is still in the soul and can’t be reached through Sherlock’s skin.

“You left,” Sherlock whispers. “I was asleep and you left.”

John gathers him in his lap and squeezes so that Sherlock’s bones crackle.

“Please don’t leave, please don’t leave me, I’ll be good, just please don’t leave.”

John feels like crying himself. He hushes Sherlock, hugs him tighter, kisses him deep and rubs circles on his back.

Later, John finds his note under the sofa, swiped there by the wind from the open window.

 

+

 

On the sixteenth day, Sherlock says he wants to see his mother.

Mrs Holmes meets them at the door and Sherlock drapes himself over her and stays attached to her lilac dress for five minutes without moving. They stay for the weekend and Mrs Holmes keeps petting Sherlock’s new hair like she needs concrete proof that the mop of curls is really gone. She whispers to John how Sherlock always refused to have his hair cut when he was a child.

She finds John later in the sitting room, staring at the dozens of pictures of little curly-haired Sherlock pouting at the camera. The only picture with him smiling is surprisingly enough with Mycroft, the big brother supporting the younger on his shoulders in the garden under a huge apple tree with the fruit ripe and juicy and just out of the reach of Sherlock’s chubby fingers.

John looks out of the window to see freely flowing grass and flower beds, the tree long gone.

“We cut it down after Sherlock climbed in it and broke his leg when he was seven. Nasty business. The tree was hollow throughout. It was dangerous.”

At night, his cheek resting against Sherlock’s bare thigh, John sees the scar on his knee, spreading across the kneecap and sliding under his leg. It must have been painful, the surgery, the physical therapy. But Sherlock was young, he has forgotten already. As much as Sherlock can ever forget.

John spreads his fingers and begins to drag his hand over Sherlock’s skin, looking for more scars. He finds one on his hip, two on his ankle (tiny bite marks like from a very large cat or a very small dog), lots of little ones on his hands, appendectomy scar on his stomach and a large fresher one on his shoulder.

He doesn’t have a chance to inspect that one closer before Sherlock flips them so that he ends up looming over John and begins in turn to run his hands over the small and big dents and bruises on John’s body. John falls asleep to Sherlock’s fingers playing his ribs where the small imprint of seven-year-old Harry’s bitemark is still showing from when she decided to pretend John was a prime rib.

 

 

At the end of the week, right before the dinner that is to end their visit, John stands in the middle of the huge field opening right outside the Holmes house, wondering how often Sherlock has been running across it during his games. It is a perfect place for a child to explore, vast open space covered in long, whooshing grass. Several tall and old oak trees in the distance, perfect for treehouses and rope ladders which could be pulled up when the big brother came to look for the little one not yet ready to come inside after a day of playing pirate.

He puts his hands into his pockets to cover them from the north breeze when a rustle of footsteps make him prick his ears. Sherlock stands behind him and slides his hand into John’s jacket pockets as well.

John turns his head slightly to ask if Sherlock wants to spend Christmas there. Sherlock nods against his shoulder.

 

+

 

Christmas dinner, and Sherlock and John are in Sherlock’s old bedroom, John attempting to tie a bowtie around Sherlock’s neck Mrs Holmes has insisted they wear for dinner. He is growing more and more frustrated, while Sherlock stays perfectly still, watching John’s hands work.

Finally John looks up, extremely proud that he has succeeded, but before he can say anything Sherlock is kissing him fervently.

“Marry me,” he breathes.

“What, now?”

_Yes, now. Right this second. As soon as possible. Just say yes, say yes, say yes..._

“Boys,” Mrs Holmes calls from the other side of the door. “Father is famished. He has already threatened he will start without you if you don’t come down.”

John tries to call out something of an answer and perhaps his muffled yell conveys some kind of understandable message to Mrs Holmes. Her steps tap away down the stairs and into the dining room where Mr Holmes and Mycroft, bowties already in place, are sitting with their knives and forks ready, napkins folded in the collars of their Christmas jumpers.

Sherlock presses his mouth against John’s, not quite a kiss anymore but a desperate attempt to keep John attached to him while he takes a hold of his arms and squeezes so that it hurts.

 

+

 

Hair grows back and wounds heal, the ones of the soul perhaps slower than those of the body but they still do. Sherlock’s soft curls have long been in need of a good cut, and on a Tuesday he comes home with every strand in order, smelling strongly of rose water John knows his hairdresser ladles in after every trim.

Molly turns up to work one morning, glowing and smiling and blushing as John takes one look at her, winks and goes to hug her. Sherlock looks confused as Molly exits through the door to go find some tissues even though she is still smiling.

“She’s pregnant,” John informs him.

Once again when Molly returns, face red from wiping the tears and glowing from the happiness and newly discovered motherhood, Sherlock gives her one of his awkward hugs. Once again Molly has something to ask from him.

“Josh’s sister has already promised to be the godmother.”

Sherlock is struck dumb which Molly takes as a yes.

“You always get the best bits of her,” John says and kisses him on the mouth.

The baby is due on 12th of August and for the whole spring and the blazing hot summer Sherlock goes to Bart’s every day to make sure Molly drinks enough, rests enough and gets home safe.

The due date comes and goes and Sherlock sits next to the phone whenever he is not with Molly, fidgeting and biting his nails. On the 18th, the phone rings very early in the morning. Lucy Maria was born healthy and so fast there wasn’t any time to call. They go to the hospital the next day and Molly lowers her daughter on Sherlock’s arms, her wedding ring gleaming on the table next to a glass vase of flowers.

“It doesn’t fit me now,” she says to John, exhausted but happier than ever as Sherlock rocks the little bundle in his arms and looks at it like he has never seen anything more amazing. “My feet and hands are so swollen she’ll be in university before I’m back to my regular size.”

John kisses her forehead and shakes Josh’s hand. Sherlock keeps rocking the sleeping baby-Lucy until she wakes up with a slight squirm, opens her eyes and stares at him with her deep dark eyes.

John reaches his hand out to touch her cheek, and she turns her stare on him before locking back to Sherlock’s dazed gaze.

“She has my figure already,” Molly says. “Look at the chubby little fingers. And her thighs! I bet the one-pieces your mum gave us won’t fit,” she says to Josh who has sat down next to her on the bed, arm over her shoulders.

She sighs and falls asleep, snoring softly as Sherlock and John take their leave, baby-Lucy also fast asleep in her father’s arms.

 

+

 

John huffs up the steps to the door of the flat, puts down his bag with a heavy _thump_ and unlocks the door. Mrs Hudson has already retired, her flat dark and quiet, so he tries to make as little noise as he can. He enters the sitting room and is greeted by the familiar smells of home.

Sherlock has gone to celebrate his parents’ ruby wedding, and so the flat is dark when John returns, tired and grumpy from a weekend at Harry’s, but happy in the knowledge that she does not drown her sorrows into the bottle anymore.

The visit has been a sort of Watson family reunion as well, their mother and father and some nameless relatives arriving all at once to comment on the state of Harry’s flat and the state of her health and the state of her now non-existent marriage and the state of her life in general, and she needed all the support she could get. Mrs Holmes, having listened to John’s apologies over the phone, had ensured him that he should be with his family and that their party would only be a minor event anyway, only the closest friends, only the immediate family.

The immediate closest family friends turn out to be a hundred and thirty people, all lounging about for the whole of Saturday and Sunday on the lawn of a small hotel the Holmeses had reserved for their exclusive use. So while John is being questioned by his half-deaf nana, Sherlock is being harassed by his grand-mère, his aunt he hasn’t seen in 20 years, his banker cousin, his doctor cousin, and his second cousin who does something no one understands but makes a boatload of money doing it so he is allowed to harass as well.

At three o’clock on Sunday morning, John’s mobile starts to buzz on the night stand in the room he shares with Harry and their parents. He snatches up the phone without looking and goes to the bathroom to speak.

“Sherlock, love, what is it?” he rubs his eyes against the bright lights of the loo.

Sherlock’s voice comes out a whisper.

“ _Help me_.”

Knowing Sherlock, he has probably hid himself in a cleaning cupboard and is sitting on a bucket in the dark.

“You’ve only been there for 12 hours,” John sighs. “How bad can it be?”

“There are _people_ here, John,” the terrified whispering continues. “And they’re all idiots, none of them have committed any murders, only a few infidelities and one or two insurance scams, and they’re so _boring_!”

John sits on the toilet lid and yawns so that his jaw cracks. There’s a patch of mould in the corner next to the bathtub. He should talk to Harry about that.

“Go to bed,” he instructs Sherlock. “Be with your mother. You barely see her anyways and you promised her to be on your best behaviour. It’s only for another day, anyway.”

The static muttering on the other end hurts his eardrums, so he moves the phone further away, whispers a goodbye into it and ends the call.

Back in the bedroom his parents are still sound asleep but Harry’s eyes open a fraction when he climbs back to bed and shivers at the cold sheets. Harry snuggles closer to him, giving back the extra blanket she has stolen in her sleep. It’s a big bed so they’re sharing, like they used to when they were children. It’s an old bed as well, and there’s a slight dent on John’s side in the shape of a person who has always slept in the same position on her side, facing the person on her right.

It’s Harry and Clara’s bed, their marriage bed, bought the day after the wedding. John doesn’t want to think about it, that he’s sleeping on Clara’s ghost when he’s still trying very hard to exorcise it out of Harry’s life. So he moves in closer to his sister, wraps his arms round her. Harry sighs.

“Sherlock?” she asks quietly.

“Bored,” John answers.

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t phone again but texts every hour with small messages.

 _My gran keeps banging me_ _on_ _the head with her umbrella. Mycroft seems proud._

 _I’m dying here._ _Leaving everything to you in my will._

 _The most interesting crime of the weekend has just been discovered,_ _solved_ _and the criminal_ _apprehended and_ _punished: a jar of jam from the breakfast table vanished and was found empty under a table with red footprints leading away under another table where my cousin was hiding. Send Lestrade to make the arrest._

_I love you. I want to come home._

 

+

 

Sherlock’s return to Baker Street seems to stretch and stretch because of all the relatives that need to be said goodbye to (as he explains in the short text that has more typos John has ever seen in a text). It’s close to midnight when John finally hears the lock click downstairs, the door open and close slightly louder than necessary. and heavy footsteps making their way upstairs.

He opens the door and Sherlock stumbles against him and on him, pulling them both to the floor. The small bag stuffed full of clothes and other bric-a-brac lands next to them.

“You’re drunk,” John informs him.

“Yeesh. Mummy had alcohol. I took so many.”

“And you brought in half the gutter with you,” John peeks over Sherlock’s shoulders to see the muddy footprints that decorate the stairs. Sherlock’s dress shoes are spoiled and his trousers are wet up to the knee.

Sherlock lifts his head to see John better. His eyes are sparkling and he is grinning the content smile of the highly intoxicated in his happiness of seeing John again. He closes his eyes and purses his lips.

“I wanna kiss.”

“I’m not kissing you with that mouth,” John pulls back. ”You smell of Glenfiddich and raw liver.”

Sherlock closes his mouth, twists his lips tight and pecks John’s closed mouth. The taste of whiskey is nice, though stale, but the strange smell of entrails lingers. Sherlock blinks slowly, then he dives into his pocket and pulls out something brown and purple and disgusting.

“That’s right! I bumped into the trashcans outside the butcher’s on Mortimer Street.”

He looks wonderingly at the piece of meat oozing something unpleasant over his hand.

“I don’t think they’ll be very pleased to see the state of their back yard when they come to work tomorrow.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes through his mouth, “please take that thing as far away from the house as possible.”

“I wanted to give it to Redbeard. As a treat,” Sherlock opposes, looking around like he is expecting to see someone.

“Who’s Redbeard?” John blocks his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

“Our dog.”

“We don’t have a _dog_ ,” John feels ill by now.

Sherlock looks puzzled. The liver has begun to drip on the floor. John stares at it and waits for it to sprout tentacles. Or teeth. Or both.

“We don’t?”

“No, love,” John pats Sherlock’s curls with his free hand. “We don’t.”

Then he feels something icky and disgusting on his palm and when he draws his hand back, it’s sticky with something green and pink.

“All right! That’s it!”

He throws Sherlock off him and over his shoulder. The disgusting piece of meat stays firmly in Sherlock’s grasp as John carries him to the bathroom and dumps him clothes and all in the bathtub. Sherlock sits there, dazed and blinking at the bright lights as John divests him of his clothing, takes a plastic bag and dumps the liver in it. He’d very much like to throw it out of the window and feel sorry for the unfortunate bastard who happens to stumble upon it later. But the bag only finds its way into the bin and John hopes he will remember to take it out later tonight or it’ll stink up the flat.

Sherlock is inspecting the shampoo bottles when he returns. The liver stink stuck to his own clothes and skin now and his hand full of the sticky stuff he knows the back of Sherlock’s head to be full of, John undresses and climbs in the tub as well.

 

 

When they are both sparkling clean and Sherlock’s head is relatively clear from all the cold water John has sprayed on him and poured down his throat, they lie on the rug in front of the fire, the clock striking two, John leaning against his chair and combing his fingers through Sherlock’s clean curls.

“How was your mother?” he asks.

“Inquired after you,” Sherlock buries his face into John’s shirt.

“Oh?”

“I ensured her you still take good care of me and keep me very content sexually.”

“You did not.”

“I might have,” Sherlock scrunches up his nose and pokes it into John’s bellybutton. “There was so very much alcohol.”

He listens to the logs crackling in the hearth and smells the pinewood burning, the scent of resin whiffing out every now and then. He smacks his lips like he is still enjoying the taste of the 50-year-old whiskey and says, half asleep,

“You wanna take care of me sexually right now?”

John arranges his hair behind his ear.

“Love to but I’m afraid that if I move you, you’ll hurl on me.”

Sherlock looks up at him under half-closed lids.

“Am I a good lover, John?”

“The best,” John assures.

“I’m not an alcoholic. This was just a one-off.”

“I know.”

“I don’t smoke excessively,” Sherlock lists. “Only when people are annoying. I don’t put unlabelled body parts in the fridge… anymore. I cook. Sometimes.”

He closes his eyes again. He seems to be having a hard time coming up with stuff.

“You’re kind, you care, you comfort me when I’m upset,” John helps.

“Those are the kind of banalities anyone is capable of.”

“And you seem to think that what makes a perfect partner is only smoking like a small chimney, drinking like a sponge at your parents wedding party and taking only two years tostart writing a note on the lid of the Tupperware if it happens to contain cut-off fingers ---“

“Toes.”

“--- but no, not everyone can do what you do when I’m having a rotten day,” John pinches Sherlock’s earlobe so that he winces.

“We should consider getting married. I hear they give you good whiskey when you do,” Sherlock informs him and he rubs his earlobe.

“I’ll give you all the whiskey you want even if you don’t marry me,” John ensures him.

The fire is dying out slowly and a chill creeps towards John’s bare toes but he doesn’t want to move to put more logs into the fire. He is too comfortable on the floor with Sherlock’s head lolling on his lap, his breathing calming down gradually until he is snoring gently and breathing hot air into John’s navel.

John, despite his chilly toes, feels content enough to close his eyes for a moment. He wakes up seven hours later with the morning sun shining into his eyes and a crick in his neck, Sherlock still drooling in his sleep and poking his nose into his crotch.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well, perhaps a nice addition to it all is the gleaming white gold ring Sherlock sneaks out to buy later during the day, hides inside a piece of black pudding, and on which John almost breaks his tooth while enjoying his dinner and which, in the end, is slipped onto his ring finger and peppered with kisses while he looks for a 24-hour dentist from the phonebook.


End file.
